


Two Booksellers of Storybrooke

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, F/M, Gutter Flower Captain Swan Secret Santa 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: Emma Swan has two problems: 1. Killian Jones, the annoying co-owner of the bookstore across the street from her own (just how many book shops did one small town need?); and 2. The fact that she may or may not be falling in love with the same Killian Jones. The course of true love never did run smooth, did it?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alwaysbeenapirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbeenapirate/gifts).



> Written for a dear friend for Gutter Flower Secret Santa 2016 (but then it ran away from me). Merry (belated) Christmas, M!
> 
> Note: numbers in brackets indicate Shakespeare quotation/paraphrase; the citations follow the story.

**PROLOGUE**

He was charming. He was attractive. He was intelligent. 

But he was also infuriating. And arrogant. And something of a Casanova.

And he was right across the street. 

(Yet, loathe as she was to admit it, she was probably halfway in love with him.)

(But only half.)

(The course of true love never did run smooth, [ 1] did it?)

* * *

**ACT 1**

It started—as all good stories do—with a clandestine meeting.

She couldn’t help but wonder whose bright idea it was to have an open bar at a conference dedicated to children’s books. Emma Swan had never seen so many drunk school librarians in her life, and it was beyond amusing—though that may have been exacerbated by the fact that she, too, had imbibed her fair share of drinks, and was presently laughing to herself over one particular lady in cat-eyed glasses doing shots with a younger woman in a cat sweater.

The guy next to her was laughing, too, but he certainly did not fit the mold: dark, disheveled hair; mischievous blue eyes; and a button-up shirt that was missing the top few, showing off some glorious (if she said so herself) chest hair.

“And what are you laughing at?” she wondered, probably a bit too loudly.

“You.”

“That’s rude,” she slurred, teasingly.

“No. I love your laugh. I’d quite like to hear it some more.”

“Well, then, you’d just have to make me.”

“And how would one do that?”

She hummed. “Give me your best book-related pickup line.”

He stared at her for a moment, starry-eyed, before the corner of his mouth ticked up into a smirk. “I hope you don’t consider me too forward, but I enjoy your preface.”

She laughed.

They kissed.

And then did some other stuff back in his room.

And, as usual, she ducked out early in the morning, not even knowing his name, but unable to shake those laughing blue eyes from her head.

* * *

**ACT 2**

It continued on a seemingly innocuous afternoon in a sleepy little town. 

A bell jingled, indicating that Storybrooke’s cute little bookshop, Happily Ever Afters, had customers. Emma was in the back, adding to their stock of classic literature (and desperately ignoring the deep chuckle that rang in her head from time to time), while her business partner/best friend/foster sister Mary Margaret Blanchard was manning the counter in the front. Her son, Henry, had his nose in a book in the shop’s designated reading and storytime section, sprawled across a few dark green beanbag chairs that matched the canopy of fake leaves overhead in their indoor forest.

Emma smirked when she heard the way Mary Margaret greeted their visitors; it was the brunette’s signature “you’re very hot and I don’t know how to handle it” voice. Very little fazed the woman, an eternal optimist who had been a kindergarten teacher for a few years before they opened up shop, but every now and then, there was a guy who threw her off.

Emma typically could not say the same—as proven by the fact that she was only 28 years old and had a 10-year-old son whose father was long gone. She generally had a hard time seeing things through her friend’s rose-colored glasses, but she tried for Henry’s sake, and, if the smile presently on his face was any indication, it seemed to be working. Men, though? No way.

(Though if she could stop smiling whenever she thought about the way a certain nameless dark-haired Englishman had moved above and below her, it would probably be easier to keep it that way.)

All in all, they had a pretty damn good thing going. Their shop was well-liked, they made a decent living, and they’d set up roots with their friends here in town—something Emma had hardly ever done before coming to live with the Blanchards when she was 15. There had been times she wished for a bit more in the way of companionship, but Henry’s father had done a pretty good job of reminding her why that wasn’t in the cards for her, and she’d reluctantly accepted that. One-night stands were as far as she went; the fact that she couldn’t seem to mentally shake the last one was even further proof of why that was the safest plan.

Up at the front, she could hear Mary Margaret awkwardly conversing with a customer, but footsteps indicated another was approaching. Turning to the sound, she automatically went into retail mode: “Can I help you find anyth…”

She trailed off when she met the blue eyes staring back at her—the same eyes that had been dancing through her dreams for a month now. Eyes that were now staring back at her with equal recognition. Well, they had been, but they quickly turned down, and he reached up to scratch the back of his head in a motion that was somehow a combination of bashful, embarrassed, and—was that coy?

“Um...hi,” she said shyly, stealing a glance at Henry to make sure he was still occupied. 

“Hello, love,” was his equally awkward reply, before he offered his hand. “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

That was one of her rules: to never give her name to a one-night stand; she’d worked long enough in bail bonds before opening the shop to know well enough the power of a name. And it was pretty inconceivable that she’d run into another attendee of a conference in Boston later in their small Maine town. But this time, it was just embarrassing.

He was still waiting for her reply, extended hand faltering. “Uh, Emma. Emma Swan,” she finally blurted out, gently shaking his hand. 

“Killian,” he introduced back; if she thought she’d liked his accent before, its lilt as he said his name made it even more ridiculously hot. “It’s quite a lovely shop you’ve got here.” The charm that first attracted her to him was in full swing.

“Thanks.” Despite his seemingly warm greeting, tension hung over them as thick as  _ War and Peace _ . She swallowed and started, “Um, about Boston…”

“It’s fine, love,” he interrupted, with a wave of the hook he wore in place of a left hand (she had almost forgotten about it—it certainly didn’t hinder him). “You’re not the first lass who’s run out on a shared night. But at least I’ve had the pleasure of finding you again.”

She would have blushed, but there was something slightly aloof in his tone—like he wanted to be genuine, but had an ulterior motive. So she ignored that and went back to her first question: “Was there anything I could help you find?”

_ You idiot; he clearly knows his way around a bookstore—why else would he have been at a freaking book conference? _ She mentally berated herself as he turned his attention back to the leather-bound tomes on the shelves. “I was just observing your Shakespeare collection. You don’t have  _ Romeo and Juliet _ .”

“Were you looking for it?”  _ Doesn't every book nerd already have it? _ He didn’t exactly strike her as the romantic tragedy type...but what did she know about him, anyway?

“ _ But come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight _ ,” [ 2] he quoted, and she might have swooned a bit were it not for the cocky edge to his recitation. “ No; just an observation. In fact, you don’t seem to have any of Shakespeare’s tragedies.”

She snorted. “Didn’t you see the name out front? We only deal in happy endings.” It was true—despite the fairytale-like theme of the store, they had a wide variety of genres, but there was one rule: it had to have a happy ending.

“Well, that hardly seems realistic.”

“Who said it had to be?”

“Life isn’t always happy.”

_ Preaching to the choir, bro _ . But since he was determined to antagonize her, she mustered all of the power of a Mary Margaret hope speech. “No, so why should we go out of our way to find more unhappiness?” 

“You don’t quite believe that, do you?” he assessed, taking a step closer. She gulped a bit, off put by how well he could read her. 

“Did you come here to shop or to perform a psychological assessment?” He just smirked again in reply—an answer she was kind of beginning to loathe—and reached up to the shelf above her head, pulling down a book, only breaking eye contact once it was in hand. 

“ _ Love’s Labour’s Lost _ ,” he read aloud. “Sounds about right.” He turned away, and headed back to the front of the store and out of sight. She heard him make the purchase and the door bell jingle as he and his friend left.

Mindlessly, she went back to shelving books. The mundane task let her brain attempt to sort out just what the hell had happened, but she came to no conclusions. Why would a one-night stand show up out of the blue, in her tiny town, and try to flirt-slash-argue books with her? She racked her brain for any other interactions of theirs at that conference, but other than recalling seeing him in a session on independent book stores, she came up blank.

Once she was done, she collapsed the box and headed up to the front of the store. Mary Margaret was dreamily organizing the bookmark display, only pulled from her happy haze when Emma roughly shoved the box in the too-small trash can.

“You okay, Emma?” she asked.

“Oh, wonderful,” she grumbled, and watched her friend’s brow furrow in concern. She hated to be the one to ruin Mary Margaret’s good mood. “You seem happy, though.”

The soft smile returned to Mary Margaret’s face. “Yes, we just had the most charming customer.”

“Oh yeah?” Emma’s mood improved at seeing her friend’s glee.  _ Must have been Killian’s _ (now that she knew his name)  _ friend _ . “Did you get his number?”

Mary Margaret blushed a bit. “No, but he said he’d be back. Do you think he will?”

Despite the oddity of their entire exchange, Emma had only one answer for her friend:

“I hope so.”

* * *

A few weeks later, the beep of a truck woke Emma. She glanced at her clock; 7 am on a Saturday was way too early to be up. Grumpily, she shuffled out of bed and went to the window that looked down over Main Street from her apartment above the shop. On the other side of the road, a moving van was backing up at the vacant shop space across the way. “Sucks to be them,” she muttered, before wandering off in search of coffee. There had been a rotation of businesses in that space and she had no reason to believe that would change.

Later that day, around lunchtime, their friend Ruby came over with their lunch orders from her grandmother’s diner.

“Did you guys hear? The shop across the street was finally rented out!”

“How is that news, Ruby? There's something new in there every six months,” Emma scoffed while cleaning up a display. They'd seen a salad restaurant, a clothing store, even a video rental (with a rather extensive, um,  _ adult _ section) come and go just in the past year alone. And she was still a bit bitter that they’d woken her up so early.

“Yeah, but did you see who’s in charge of this one?” The accompanying leer, paired with Ruby’s trademark wolfish grin with her tongue between her teeth, could only mean one thing: serious eye candy. 

Emma and Mary Margaret both stilled in the middle of what they were doing and met the other’s eye across the counter, where Mary Margaret had going over some papers. Ruby never made a big deal out of nothing, so whoever was moving in across the street was certainly worth a second glance. 

Henry was upstairs playing a videogame, so Emma didn’t have to worry about him spying on her potential leering (he knew she was an adult, and did adult things, but she tried to keep that from him as much as possible). The girls slipped toward the windows, where Ruby had already found something of a perch, leaning across the permanent Harry Potter display. The other two filed in alongside her, attempting to look busy lest anyone notice their ogling. 

At first, they didn’t see anything; but movement from the open end U-Haul caught their attention, and two men began to maneuver a short bookshelf down the ramp.

And when Emma saw who it was, her heart began to race—out of excitement or fear, she hadn’t determined.

Which only gave her one possible response: “Shit!” she muttered under her breath, drawing the attention of her friends who had been happily ogling. 

“What?” Ruby asked, scooching closer because she could tell there was a story there. 

Emma whispered, “So, umm...I may have kind of happened to have slept with one of those guys a month or so ago…”

“Girl!! You didn't tell me! When?” Ruby whisper-yelled. 

“It was just a one-night stand when I had that overnight trip to Boston.”

“I thought that you were at a children’s book conference!”

“I was!” She furrowed her brow then. “Wait a minute...is that a bookshelf?”

Three sets of eyes turned back to the scene across the street. The guys had set the shelf down on the sidewalk for a moment, panting in the unseasonable early May heat with sweat plastering their shirts to their (well-defined) chests. And...it definitely looked like a fixture for holding books.

“Dammit, no!” Her exclamation made the other girls jump, and pulled Mary Margaret from her reverie of staring at Killian’s friend. But she’d just put the pieces together and wasn’t happy. “They’re opening a bookstore.”

“How do you know?” Mary Margaret wondered innocently.

“Like I said, I met him at a book conference. He was in some of the same sessions as me.”

“Huh, David didn’t say anything about that when they were here,” the brunette mused.

“No, but he said he’d see you soon.”

“Oh...yeah.”

Emma was fuming. So had he just come in to do some recon or something? Play the flirt card so she’d be thrown off his actual motives? 

Not wasting another moment, she practically ran out of the store, hardly checking for traffic as she ran across the divided boulevard that was Main Street to where the guys were just about to move the shelf inside.

“Really?” she shouted, not bothering to deal with proper greetings.

“Hello, love,” he said, because apparently he would bother with those. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Kill the act, Prince Charming. Are you seriously opening a bookstore across the street from mine?”

“Well, actually, David here is usually the one known as Prince Charming. People tend to refer to me as Captain Hook,” he replied with a wave of his prosthetic. “And yes, we are opening a bookshop, but have no fear: your lovely little establishment won’t be harmed by ours.”

His smile back at her was something between cocky and challenging. She couldn’t decide if she liked it or not, but that was neither here nor there. “How can it not affect us? We’re both selling books.”

“Oh, but you said it yourself: you only deal with happy endings. We don’t limit ourselves in that regard.” He took a few swaggering steps forward as he spoke, thoroughly invading her space.

Her chest heaved, and she didn’t care to think if it was due to anger or arousal. “So what, if we don’t have it, you will? Is that your plan?”

“And vice versa. It really works out quite well for the both of us.” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss or punch away the smug look on his face, and he was well within range for either. 

“Was that recon work you were doing when you came in our shop?” she spat accusingly.

“More like becoming familiar with the neighborhood. And we found we rather liked it.” The way he popped the ‘t’ was downright sinful and loaded with challenge. And she was more than capable of seeing that he got one.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” she threw back, ending the conversation. She turned on her heel and headed back across the street, not looking back to see his reaction. She liked to imagine his face fell, the smirk melting right off—but something told her it just made him grin all the harder (and something else told her she didn’t mind).

“Well?” Mary Margaret asked when Emma came back into their store followed by a jarring clang of the bell.

“Yeah, it’s a bookstore.”

“Oh.” The way her friend’s eyes fell showed conflicting emotions—no doubt happy to see more of the man who had caught her attention, but was it worth the risk of her livelihood? “So what are we going to do?”

“Hang out our banners on the outward walls.” [3]  


“What does that mean?” Ruby wondered.

“It means we don’t go down without a fight.”

* * *

Of course, it would be easier to fight if they actually wanted to defeat their foes. 

It started small: one day, a box arrived in their normal shipment of books, but Emma was confused when she opened it: it was full of copies of  _ Macbeth _ ,  _ Hamlet _ , and other Shakespearean tragedies. “We didn’t order this,” she muttered to herself, and then checked the address label to make sure it was addressed to them.

It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. There in black ink: “Killian Jones, Shore Leaves Books”, but written above their address. She groaned, knowing that 1. He’d probably done that on purpose; and 2. She was the one who’d have to lug that heavy-ass box across the street. 

Begrudgingly, she loaded the box onto a dolly and dragged it over, throwing the door of the boys’ store open with a bit more force than was probably necessary.

“Oi! Watch it, you…” Killian’s voice started from the back, preceding his appearance, but he trailed off when he stepped out from an aisle and saw who it was. “Oh. You’re not Dave.”

“No, I’m not. So I really shouldn’t be receiving your books, should I?” She gestured to the box, annoyed.

“Sorry about that, love; must have been a clerical error.” From his tone—and the fact that she could spot a lie a mile away—she knew it was no mistake that she ended up with his merchandise.

“Well, then, you need to hire a new secretary. Or get glasses or something.”

“Are you saying I’d look fetching in glasses?”

She quickly pushed back the image of Clark Kent that popped up in her head. “No; your ego seems to be big enough as it is. I’d hate to add to it.”

He walked over to where she stood at the front of the shop and bent to flip open a flap on the box with his hook, perusing the contents. “Oh, this is definitely not your cup of tea, Swan.” He glanced up at her from his hunched-over position through his impossibly long lashes, with mischief in his eyes.

“If that was a passive-aggressive comment on our book selection, it’s not going to change a thing.”

“Didn’t think it would,” he assented, standing back up and reading for the handle of the dolly. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll just take this to the back. Wait a moment, will you?” There was something surprisingly genuine in his request, so she had to grant it.

“You have my dolly.” (She didn’t have to let him know she’d caught his rare moment of sincerity...or grant him one of her own.) He smiled back, a bit softer than usual, and tilted the dolly to pull it away. 

While he was gone, she glanced around the shop: it was actually really, really nice. They’d seen woodworkers coming in and out, and it showed: the floor was a gorgeous, light-and-dark striped hardwood that matched the varying colors of polished shelving along the walls and aisles. The shelves she’d watched them move in were placed around the shop as movable displays, and the counter was a large, intricately carved desk with a ship’s wheel mounted on the front. She knew it was a nautical-themed store, based on the name, and there was all kind of ocean-related decor in the nooks and crannies that weren’t filled with books, and it really worked. 

She wandered over to the wheel, pushing on it out of curiosity; it actually turned. She could see any number of small children having the time of their lives with it, but also could imagine Killian as a ship’s captain, manning the helm, the wind whipping his sea spray-soaked hair…

“That actually came off a 19th-century whaling ship.” Killian’s voice made her jump and interrupted her fantasy, frantically grabbing at the spinning wheel to stop it.

He chuckled at her reaction as he slipped around the other side of the counter. He grabbed a business card from the holder on the desk and flipped it over before setting it down, pulling a pen from a cup, and writing on the back of it. When he was done, he handed it to Emma face-up. “Here is the shop number, should any of our merchandise make its way to you again.” The way the corner of his mouth ticked up implied that it would. Then, with a deft twist of his fingers, he flipped it around. “And here is my number, in case you’d prefer a more personal pick-up.” His tongue quickly traced his lower lip before that ever-present smirk reclaimed his features.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes before tearing the card out of his hand. “Thanks, but like I said: get some glasses.”

“I thought you didn’t want that?” he teased back.

“I...um...whatever,” she sputtered back, caught. “Thanks. See you,” she said quickly and dashed out of the store. She was nearly hit by Ruby’s Mustang when she tried to run across the street, doing her best to quickly get away from Killian.

She was in the median when his voice called back to her. “Love, you forgot this.” She turned to see him jogging her way with the dolly, careful to look both ways before he crossed the one-way street ( _ show off _ ). “Wouldn’t want to forget that, now, would you?”

“Nope. Thanks.” The pavement was looking particularly interesting, she thought; better to stare at that than those too-blue eyes that were probably laughing at her right now.

He paused, awkwardly, as if he was working up the nerve to say something, and he finally spit it out: “You know, most men would find your silence off-putting, but...I love a challenge.”

That finally made her look up, only to see him staring back with an eyebrow raised. Enough was enough; she’d rebuked all the flirting she possibly could for one day. She turned and dragged the dolly with her this time, shouting over he shoulder, “Thanks again!”

“Anytime!” was the reply, and she got the feeling that meant more along the lines of  _ next week _ or  _ tomorrow _ . 

It was actually two weeks later—two weeks of him winking at her from the other side of the street, which she replied to by rolling her eyes; two weeks of sitting on the opposite side of the diner from him when she ate there with Henry; two weeks of that card burning a hole in her pocket until she finally just stuck it in a drawer (in her bedroom next to some of her adult things but that was neither here nor there)—when they received another box that should have gone across the street, this time filled with  _ Moby Dick _ and a lot of Hemingway. She pulled her cellphone from her pocket; at some point, after a long day and too much wine, she’d put the shop number in her contacts; she hadn’t imbibed quite enough to put his personal number in.

It rang a couple times before being picked up. “Shore Leaves, come here for your next adventure. This is Killian; how may I help you?”

“I’ve got an adventure for you. It’s called coming across the street to get your box.”

“Ah, hello, Swan. Did another package make its way over there?” There was nothing surprised in his tone, and when she stepped out from behind the counter, she could see him leaning on theirs and looking across at her. (Smirking, of course. There had to be another word for that right? She made a mental note to grab a thesaurus when this was over.)

“Yes, it did, and I’m not bringing it to you. Come here.” She hung up before he could counter that, but watched as he set the phone down. That wasn’t...was that a hint of disappointment she saw on his face? No, no way—he was just squinting in the sun. That had to be it.

Their bell jangled a couple minutes later, and in he came, cocky front firmly in place. “What’s it today, love?  _ Julius Caesar _ ?”

“ _ The Old Man and the Sea _ .”

“Ah, my biography.”

She couldn’t help it: she laughed.

“Now there’s a sound I’ve missed,” he said gently as she placed the box in his wagon (because apparently that was what you used to moved around merchandise in a nautical-themed bookstore). Once it was securely situated, she glanced up at him—there was a soft look in his eyes, one that she hadn’t seen since the night they hooked up. Actually, the same look that had made her run in the first place: like how she imagined Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth Bennett, once they got over their issues. It was thrilling, but also terrifying, because she knew that opening herself up to that just meant that her heart could be broken again.

As if on cue, the moment was interrupted by Ruby barging in the front door. “Emma! You wouldn’t believe...oh. Hey there.” It was pretty impressive how Ruby could go from gossip to flirt in a heartbeat, and Emma had never been more thankful for it, or the way her friend was clearly undressing Killian with her eyes (but his skinny jeans and button up looked pretty good on, too).

“What’s up, Rubes?” She leaned away from Killian to get a better look at Ruby, effectively ending the conversation.

“Right then; I’ll see you two around.” Killian scratched behind his ear awkwardly with his hook as he left the store, pulling the wagon behind him to the sound of the girls’ murmured goodbyes.

“Shit, I’m so sorry! I totally cockblocked you,” Ruby apologized once the door shut behind him.

“Can you actually cockblock a girl?” Emma deflected.

“Yes, you can. Or were you too busy doing it to yourself?”

Damn Ruby’s intuition.

Of course, boxes came to Happily Ever After on a fairly regular basis after that. It got to the point that the Shore Leaves number was in their desk phone’s speed dial. Emma wasn’t sure if it was infuriating or cute that David seemed to come by for them just as often as Killian did, and he always got a blush out of Mary Margaret. 

“Quit flirting with the enemy, Blanchard,” Emma would tease.

“And just what is it you’re doing?” Mary Margaret threw back.

Emma didn’t have an answer.

* * *

**ACT 3**

In the weeks after the boys’ shop’s grand opening—sometime between the second and third mis-delivered parcel—Emma was acutely aware of every time Shore Leaves’ door swung open, especially whenever someone left with a bag (or worse, one of their custom tote bags with the image of an old sailing ship on it, like the one that had recently taken up residence in the marina).

She wasn’t about to just sit around and let them steal her livelihood. And she was long overdue for a rewatch of  _ You've Got Mail _ . 

All's fair in love and war, right? Emma was quite prepared for the latter, but the former seemed to have it out for her as well.

* * *

“Bye Mom!” Henry was out the door before Emma could even register that he was leaving, but that wasn’t unusual for a Saturday afternoon. He had a phone and knew that he had to be home by dinner; plus, the perk to living in a small town was that everyone looked out for everyone else.

What was weird was the lack of foot traffic entering the shop across the street. There was plenty coming in and out of theirs—almost above average, actually. Something was up.

During a lull not long before dinner, Emma went out, citing the need for fresh air. She walked down the street a bit, away from her store, before crossing the street and coming back to peek into Shore Leaves. 

To her surprise, it was closed.  _ Who closes on a Saturday?? _ But there was a sign in the window:  _ Sailing for Adventure: Boat Safety and Tales of the Sea, Storybrooke Marina, Saturday 12-6 _ , with a photo of an old-timey ship and some nautical drawings. She’d actually seen them around town for the past week, but considering her avoidance of this shop had also included all things maritime, she hadn’t paused to read it.

Checking her phone, she saw that it was only 4:30, and the sun was still high in the sky;  _ may as well check it out _ .

A slightly cool breeze was coming off the ocean once she got to the docks, making Emma wish she hadn’t left her leather jacket at home. It wasn’t hard to figure out where the event was happening when she arrived; there, on that old-fashioned ship that had recently taken up residence, was a throng of people—mostly tweens—scattered across the deck, watching a man give a speech while practically hanging from the rigging.

She should have known who exactly it was, but she couldn’t quite tell until she got closer and heard his distinctive voice over the lap of waves.

“Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main-course.”

Emma vaguely recognized the recitation as from  _ The Tempest _ , but she didn’t think Shakespeare had quite envisioned this when it was written.

“A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or our office.”

Killian was gesticulating wildly with his hand, while his hook—an actual hook, like full-on pirate, not his usual prosthetic—held him to one of the ropes of the rigging.

“Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er and drown? Have you a mind to sink?” [ 4]

All the kids were paying rapt attention to him, and she noticed that so were a number of moms—it was hard not to when he was wearing a barely-buttoned red brocade vest with leather pants and boots under a full-length leather duster. It was like he’d been torn off the cover of a bad romance novel. She could picture it in her head: some contrived title like  _ The Pirate and the Princess _ , with some scantily-clad, buxom maiden in a buff pirate’s arms, wrapped around him and one hand in his thick chest hair…

Emma shook her head. That’s not why she was here, dammit. She could see a few bookshelves set up near the ship's helm, and David stood at the ready with a card reader and a tablet, but Killian seemed to be running the show. She couldn’t deny that he was giving a great performance, either. All too soon, it was over with a flamboyant bow, and the crowd dispersed to other activities. 

When she finally dared to set foot on deck, Killian was showing some boys how to tie sailors knots and David was ringing up purchases of what looked like sea-related tales, like  _ Treasure Island _ and  _ 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea _ . Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Emma knew they’d have to do something soon to keep up; it was a good thing Mary Margaret was an expert event planner.

Glancing back over at Killian, she saw that he was deep in conversation with a familiar mop of dark hair: Henry. Knowing her kid, he was probably giving Killian the full inquisition; she was debating rescuing the poor guy from her hyper-curious son before Henry got too invasive, but Henry saw her before she got the chance. 

“Mom! Come look what Killian taught us!”

Henry was always eager to show her new things he learned and she was always more than happy to see them. Growing up in the foster system, no one really cared one way or the other how she did academically; the Blanchards, to their credit, had tried, but she was too far gone at that point. Living in less-than-stellar homes was when she found reading as an escape tool, though, which helped when she found herself knocked up in juvie (where, oddly enough, someone finally cared about her education and she got her GED). So she made a point to encourage Henry’s desire for knowledge on all things. 

“Whatcha got, kid?” She stepped behind him to look over his shoulder, and to help her ignore the way Killian was looking at her. 

“It's a...um, what did you say it was, Killian?”

“A round turn and two hitches,” he explained gently. 

“Did I do it right?”

“Almost.” Without hesitation, Killian knelt to instruct Henry with the last bit of the knot. As if her ovaries weren't already on the verge of exploding just from his outfit, watching the caring way he helped her son was sure to do the job. 

“Excellent job, lad!” Killian cheered with a pat on Henry’s shoulder before standing up again and sidling up to Emma. “That's a charming boy you have, Swan, but I’d no idea you had a son.”

She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You've seen me with him around town.”

“Aye, but I figured he was your younger brother.”

There it was. “Ah, so you're going the flattery route.”

He winked. “But honestly, Swan, there's no way—”

“I was 17,” she interrupted tersely, looking down. The downside to living in a small town: everyone also knew that, but the disapproving looks had at least dissipated over time. But she suddenly found herself fearing his, and cautiously glanced up at him through her lashes. 

To her surprise, the look on his face was empathetic. “I see.” And for a moment, she could swear she saw something similar in his gaze—something resembling the past hurt she'd endured. “He's brilliant, love.”

She couldn't help but smile and blush at his genuine compliment; that was exactly what any young single mother wanted to hear—that she was doing something right. 

Maybe, just maybe, Killian Jones wasn't so bad. 

Or maybe he'd open his mouth again and ruin the moment. 

“And he clearly has excellent taste in the company with which he should spend an afternoon.” 

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Guess I need to remind him about talking to strangers.”

“I'd hardly think you'd call me a stranger, Swan,” he said darkly, leaning in. She felt herself flush, but wasn't sure if it was due to what he was insinuating or her proximity to his exposed chest (actually, probably both—she hadn't forgotten how the coarse hair felt under her fingertips).

“Well, you're definitely strange, then. Who owns a full pirate outfit?” she threw back, gesturing at his getup. 

“Why, the same kind of man who owns a pirate ship, love,” he answered matter-of-factly, with a sweep of his arm across the deck. 

“Seriously?”

“Aye.”

It was another of those moments that gave her a glimpse of Killian Jones—the real one, not the one who used his bravado to hide behind walls that were surely as tall and thick as her own. He was smiling softly at her, and she was returning the gesture. Maybe her fantasy wasn't so far from reality here. 

“Really, Killian? Do you take it sailing? Can we go sometime?” Leave it to her son to interrupt a moment of sincerity. But Killian’s tone didn't change. 

“Aye, lad; if it's alright with your mother.”

“Mom, Mom, can we?”

“We’ll see,” she answered, laughing at her son’s enthusiasm. “But first, we’ve gotta get dinner. Come on; get your stuff.”

Henry dashed off to get his backpack from wherever he had left it, leaving Emma alone with Killian, who turned toward her after watching Henry run away. “I do mean it, Swan; my ship is available to you should ever desire it.” The lack of innuendo told her it wasn't just his ship he was referring to. “You still have my number, right?”

“Yeah,” she blurted out, before realizing what she'd just admitted. 

He smirked. “Thought so.” She flushed again, and wondered if it was possible to flush so hot that she could will her nightstand to combust. “Don't be afraid to use it.”

She could only nod, not trusting her tongue anymore, before turning to leave and join Henry where he waited at the gangplank. 

How Killian managed to bring up her full spectrum of emotions in just a few minutes was nearly inconceivable to her. She needed to keep that in check. As a reminder of that, she noticed the number of women buying books on the ship, and was sure it had everything to do with the man on the deck. She swallowed the surge of jealousy that flared up, and assured herself that it had everything to do with business and nothing to do with her feelings towards him. Nope, not at all. 

Whether or not what she was telling herself was true, it did strengthen her resolve in something else: it was time to plan their own event that put this one to shame. 

* * *

Thankfully, the weather held out for their beach reads event—July in Maine was unpredictable, especially when you were holding said event actually on the beach. But everything was going off without a hitch: people seemed to love their selection of light summer reads (a well-rounded mix of classics, modern fiction, and a good number of romance novels); Granny was doing good business with the grill she’d brought down; and everyone was having fun with the limbo and beach volleyball they'd set up. 

Emma laughed as she watched Henry and his friends splash around in the gentle waves coming off the North Atlantic, and even though this was a work event, the feel of the warm sun on her skin almost gave the impression of being on vacation. 

She was reapplying her sunblock when she noticed Killian’s ship sail into view, headed back to the marina, and that now-familiar pang of jealousy twinged in her stomach. She hoped he saw what they had going on here, and told herself that it was because she wanted him to feel the pressure...but there was a just-as-loud voice in her head that wanted him to come by. 

About an hour later, he did, with David in tow. Next to her, Mary Margaret stood just a bit straighter; Emma would have teased her had she not done the exact same thing. For the first time that day, she felt self-conscious in her (deliberately chosen yet relatively modest) red bikini top and tropical sarong.  _ What if he thinks I'm coming on too hard? Or not at all? Wait, why am I worried what he thinks? _

“Afternoon, Swan.” He was in front of her before she realized it, and if he'd noticed her attire, he was politely not staring at it—and surely the flush on his cheeks was sunburn, right? (And it's not like she was admiring the fit of his t-shirt or his swim trunks...no, not at all.)

“Hello, Jones. Looking for some light summer reading?”

“Always. Better see what you don't have so I can stock up.”

“I'll keep an eye out for that shipment, then.” They were still receiving a box for the boys’ shop at least every couple weeks; Emma had long since turned that over to Mary Margaret to deal with, who hardly seemed to mind, if the way she and David were off discussing what looked to be a modern retelling of Snow White was any indication. 

“Well, I've already found one title to order,” he drawled, tracing the edge of a paperback on the portable shelf they stood by. “It seems as though you prefer one Brontë sister over the other.”

She glanced at the book he was eyeing— _ Jane Eyre _ —and scoffed. “Are you trying to tell me you actually like  _ Wuthering Heights _ ?”

“I realize it doesn't fit your criteria, but you can hardly deny it's worth as a literary classic.”

“Heathcliff was a dick.”

“He'd lost his love. He was angry at the world.”

“That's no right to be an asshole. And this is the one time I'll agree with Edward Cullen: it's a story of hate, not love.”

“One can certainly breed the other,” he said darkly. “Tell me, Swan, has a loss of love ever affected you?”

There was an almost accusatory edge to his voice that told her both that he could identify with Heathcliff, and that he suspected Emma could as well. And Emma found herself wishing he'd stick to reading books and not her. 

“I take it by your silence, that's a yes.”

“That's none of your business.”

“What if I wanted it to be?” His gaze was intense and true, and the heat she felt coiling in her belly had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. For a second, she wondered what it would be like to let herself feel that all the time—to not worry that he'd just be another guy to break her heart. 

One second stretched to two, to a few more, and she needed to know what it would really feel like. 

Roughly, she shoved him behind the shelf and out of view, keeping her hands fisted in the soft cotton of his shirt as she followed. Then, just as fervently, she reversed the motion, tugging him to her and pulling his lips to hers. 

She felt his stiff shock at the initial contact, but he quickly melted into the kiss, hook finding her hip and hand finding her hair. Her fingers toyed with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck as she plundered his mouth with her tongue, but he gave as good as he got. They paused for a moment to catch their breath, but Emma found herself wanting more, and dove back in. 

He shifted a bit forward, which in turn nudged Emma toward the shelf, her shoulder hitting an edge and reminding her where they were. A moment later, they broke again, and she moved back a bit to distance herself. 

“That was…” Killian breathed once he'd regained his mental faculties. 

“A one-time thing,” Emma finished. It had to be. “Stay here a bit; look at the books some before you leave.”

She turned away before he had a chance to respond, but she didn't miss his fuckstruck whisper of “As you wish” before she stepped out from behind the fixture. 

(She did miss the way his fingers touched his lips, in disbelief of what had just occurred, but mainly because she was still amazed she had done that herself.)

(And the way it didn't mean a thing. Not one damn thing.)

A few minutes later, a far more composed Killian crept out from behind the shelves, looked around a bit more, and chatted with Henry before leaving with David. He nodded in her direction as they headed out, and she nodded and smiled back. 

_ One-time thing _ , she reminded herself, subduing the pang of loss she now felt whenever he left (which was only assuaged by watching the way his assets filled out those blue shorts...hey, nothing said she couldn’t look). It was going to take more convincing than usual to make herself believe that, because she knew she had never been kissed like that before: with not just passion, but actual care...and maybe something more. Hell, she was already lying to herself, given that this was their second encounter and she was somehow more wrecked than she was after the first, which was even more intimate.

She was so screwed.  

* * *

The sun was setting as Emma and Henry headed home, he skipping ahead of her along Main Street while she toted a bag with Granny’s takeout containers. Henry, as usual, was jabbering away about his day; she was trying to listen, she really was, but her thoughts kept drifting back to that kiss.

“So Killian’s pretty cool, isn’t he?” Her heart nearly stopped at Henry’s mention of the man; sometimes, she wished her son wasn’t so damn perceptive.

“Uh, I guess; I haven't really talked to him much.”

“Please, Mom. Just because I’m a kid doesn’t mean I don’t notice things.”

“Things like what?”  _ Oh, please tell me he didn’t see _ .

“Like the way you stared at his butt as he left.”

“Henry!” she admonished, but not that sternly;  _ that’s not as bad as I thought _ .

“What? It’s okay. I totally ship it.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Hey, language,” he chastised. “And it means if you want to kiss him, you totally should.”

He ran ahead of her to get the door leading to their apartment, leaving her in the dust as she shook her head and vowed to limit his internet time.

* * *

After that, it was a back-and-forth of events between the shops. August saw the boys hosting a science event that Henry couldn’t shut up about for two weeks (his enthusiasm was too adorable for Emma to tell him to can it, or to scold him for betraying his blood); then in September, the girls held a Harvest Festival, featuring cookbooks, a pie-making contest (which the mayor, Regina, won with a to-die-for apple pie), and still that bit of fairy tale flavor—because what would Cinderella be without her pumpkins or Jack and his magic beans?

Just as before, she dropped in on the boys’ event and he found his way into hers. She had rather enjoyed the DIY rock candy Killian had insisted she take home, and his pecan pie (with more than a hint of rum) had been a close third in the contest. They flirted and teased as usual, but after that kiss—and the way they both seemed to be happy to not talk about it—things took on an almost more heated edge that frustrated her. Part of her—the part that kept her awake at night, with the memory of that kiss in her head and had her reaching for the items she kept in her bedside drawer right next to his still-unused phone number—was hoping that he’d make a move and prove to her that he was truly invested. But the other part of her—the one that had been burned in love before, and could tell he had at some point, too—was already trying to tell her to move on.

It came to a head when she ran into him while posting flyers for their annual Halloween party. She paused at first, not prepared to see him at the town bulletin board (or the way the midday sun was highlighting the brown in his hair, the ginger in his beard, and the gold in the middle of those blue eyes). He smirked at her, and she raised an eyebrow in reply—their standard greeting by now. While he posted his last few flyers, holding them down with his left forearm while piercing with the push pin at the top, she slyly read the signs as she posted her own, and then scoffed.

“Really? A pirate party? That’s the best you’ve got?”

He stepped back and glanced at hers. “‘Once Upon A Time’?” he read aloud. “Looks like you’re one to talk. Not your most original idea, love.”

She could tell he was fighting back a grin, if the arch of his brow and the fire in his eyes was anything to go off of. He was taunting her, but he knew she could throw it right back.

“Is that a challenge?”

“As I said before, I love a challenge.” Between his lowered voice and already sinful accent, just that simple phrase had her both weak in the knees and raised her resolve.

Swallowing to regain her composure, she charged on. “Then I guess we’ll just see who has the best party.”

“So we shall.”

Immediately, Emma went home and did something she’d never done before: logged on to Pinterest. (She was pretty sure Mary Margaret shed a tear.) The next few weeks leading up until the party were a flurry of crafting, googling, pinning, and squee-ing as they got ready to host the perfect fairy tale party, with just a bit of a spooky edge. Of course, the party was open to all sorts of characters, but it wouldn’t be theirs without that touch of whimsy only found in fairy tales.

To that end, Mary Margaret had talked her into going as a princess. To be honest, until she saw the boys’ plans, Emma had planned on dressing up as Elizabeth Swann. That idea was quickly shelved, but she couldn’t decide on a specific princess to go as, so went about making one up of her own, with the dress to match.

(She also may have invested in a good corset to go with it. As she learned at their beach party, sex sells.)

(And makes pirates swoon.)

Once Halloween arrived, she had to admit: she was actually a bit overwhelmed. Emma wasn’t even sure where all Mary Margaret had acquired all the decorations from—magic, she had to assume. Twinkle lights topped almost every shelf; glitter was absolutely everywhere, including the punch—and probably her corset, by the end of the night; and the whole place just seemed to carry an otherworldly aura as if it had been ripped straight from the page of a storybook.

Little princes and princesses were dashing around the store, decorating crowns and tiaras with even more glitter. More than a few tiny witches and wizards were pretending to zoom through the aisles on broomsticks. There was even a little Spider-Man bowing to an adorable Merida and asking her to dance in the makeshift ballroom in the back.

The ladies watched it all, grinning, making sure to compliment each and every costumed patron that came through. They fielded plenty of their own, too: Mary Margaret’s Snow White costume was eerily accurate, and she played the part all too well; Ruby had somehow managed to tone it down from her usual outfits into a cute Red Riding Hood, cloak and all; and Emma’s self-titled Princess of Misthaven costume, composed of a red ball gown and sparkling tiara, drew its fair share of admiration. 

Between customers and trick-or-treaters, it was shaping up to be a busy and fun night. The party was spilling out not only into the street, but also across it, where it looked like Shore Leaves was also having a good turnout. Actually, it looked like people were milling between the two; she hadn’t expected that, but also realized she should be surprised. 

Her shop literally looked like Pinterest threw up on it; so what did the other store look like if it was attracting a similar crowd?

She passed off the candy bowl to Ruby, hiked up her skirt, and then crossed the street as ladylike as possible. Outside the store, the faint strains of the  _ Pirates of the Caribbean _ soundtrack were filtering through the air, and the golden wrappers from chocolate coins were strewn about the sidewalk.

Pirates and sailors of all ages were milling about inside, enjoying their own punch and games. Just as her shop’s decor lent itself to their party’s theme, the nautical setting of Shore Leaves almost had her thinking she was actually on a ship. She hadn’t been inside since around when they opened, so she hadn’t yet seen the ship-styled children’s area, where a band of princesses were making a boy dressed as a Hobbit walk the plank. A short pirate with a tiara nearly knocked her over in an attempt to rescue his friend, and as she continued through, she caught a glimpse of Henry and his crew in their Ghostbusters costumes.

It was a nice party. Maybe not as detailed as her own, but everyone was having fun and seemed to be attending both. And it answered the question of where all those candy necklaces had come from, as she noted the number of “treasure chests” overflowing with “jewels” and “coins”.

As she took in the party, she wasn’t paying enough attention to where she was going and soon found herself in the midst of a collision—David rounded the corner between shelves right into her. “Oh, sorry—Emma? Hi! Nice dress!”

“Hey,” she recovered, getting as much whiplash from his hurried outbursts as from the actual collision. “Nice party.”

“Thanks! It wasn’t completely my thing, but Killian did a good job with the details.”

“You run a nautical-themed book store and you’re saying that pirates aren’t your thing?”

“Books are; but Killian is the ex-Navy man who decided the theme.”

“Ahh.” She mentally filed away that detail. “Well, you play a pretty good one.” His brown leather pants, white tunic, and the brightly colored scarf tied around his head sold the look.

“Thanks,” he said, blushing. “But, I gotta say...I’d rather be playing prince with you guys.”

She laughed. “You know, I was going to be a pirate originally. But…” Emma trailed off, glancing over he shoulder, through the windows, and across the street. “I bet Mary Margaret could use some company.”

“You think so?”

“Mhmm.” What was the term Henry used? Oh yeah—she totally  _ shipped  _ them, which now she was thinking was some sort of pun with the way he’d used it in relation to her and Killian.

David grinned at her and practically sprinted out of the store, nearly getting hit by a car in his haste to cross the street. She was giggling to herself when she felt a hot breath and equally torrid voice against her neck. 

“Spying, are we?”

She turned quickly, only to be met with blue eyes and a dimpled-half grin that, combined with the initial shock, made her feel like her heart would beat right out of her corset.

Killian was leaning against the shelf, looking positively sinful in that same pirate outfit he wore on his ship, but it was somehow darker, more seductive—whether it was due to the pose, the low light, or the thicker eyeliner, she wasn’t sure, but if she wasn’t careful, any of her resolve would be as long gone as her ability to properly breathe in this dress.

He, too, was giving her a once over, and seemed to like what he saw. “I must say, Swan, you cut quite the figure in that dress.”

She visibly swallowed. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

“I know.” She rolled her eyes at his cocky answer and he somehow managed to smirk harder. “But back to my original question: spying, or conceding?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Admit it: this party is fantastic.”

“It’s cute,” she teased, hoping to get a rise out of him.

“Cute?” It worked. He pushed away from the shelf hips first, invading her space. “Cute?” he repeated, somewhat indignant. “I’ll have you know there is nothing cute about a pirate bash, love.”

“Could have fooled me.” 

“Pray tell how this is any more saccharine than what is surely an explosion of pink glitter and the Disney Store in your establishment?”

“I’ll have you know it’s the Brothers Grimm.”

“Well, that’s at least appropriate for the holiday. All that glitter on your chest begs to differ, though.”

She couldn’t help it: she snorted, glad that at least the corset had done its job in attracting his attention, even though, perfect annoying gentleman he was, she hadn’t noticed his eyes wander from hers once. 

“Just wave the white flag, love.”

“Let’s call it a draw.”

“I can drink to that.” Somehow, a flask appeared in his hand; he deftly flicked it open with his thumb, took a swig, and offered it to her. She eyed it for a second before taking it, fully expecting goat’s milk or something equally innocent, only to be shocked by the familiar burn of spiced rum hitting her tongue.

“Seriously? Can you get any more stereotypical?”

“What? I’m a pirate.” He gave her a devilish grin, gesturing to his prop hook and looking proud as punch of the fact.

She took one more sip of rum before passing it back, and realizing between that, the setting, and the general way he flustered her, she had to get out of there before doing another thing she regretted. “Thanks. Enjoy the rest of your party,” she nearly stuttered, as calmly as she could manage. 

She turned to leave, but had barely taken a step before she felt the cool of metal through the red satin of her sleeve. “Emma, wait.”

She faced him again, and all the bravado that was there a second ago had faded. The raw emotion and genuine ardor on his face made her flush even more than the innuendo had. 

His hand drifted up behind his ear in what she'd come to recognize as a nervous tick. “I was wondering if, maybe…”

“Will you go out with me?” Her blurted interruption was just as surprising to her as it was to him, and it hung in the now-thick silence between them. 

Until he chuckled—a deep, hearty thing she hadn't heard since their shared night; a sound she realized she missed. “Shouldn't I be the one asking?”

“Should have known you'd be old-fashioned. And you tried; I just beat you to it.” Looked like the rum was giving her some extra confidence. 

He smiled back, but softer than usual and it brightened his eyes, despite the shadows in which they stood. “I heartily accept, on one condition: you let me plan the evening.”

“I know how to plan a date,” she scoffed.

“I'm sure you do, Swan. But you pick the time and I'll handle the rest. I believe you still have my number?”

She nodded bashfully. 

“Don't be afraid to use it.” He stepped forward just enough to take her hand in his and brought it to his mouth. His lips met her fingers for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity with the way his intense gaze held hers and the gentle scratch of his scruff against her skin. A lick of fire spread through her veins, racing from the point of contact to her heart and making her chest and face match the color of her dress. 

He released her hand, but she was frozen in place, watching as he bowed to her. “Good night, Your Highness,” he said, smiling in his tone.

She recovered enough to curtsy and offer a polite “Good night, Captain,” in reply, before turning again to leave; but she did pause once to glance over her shoulder, only to see him still staring.

She felt like a little girl in the way she giggled at that and hurried out. She should have been frightened of the whole exchange—at how bold both of them acted—but it was either the rum, the spirit of the night, or maybe just getting tired of the waltz they’d been doing around each other that had her feeling anything but.

Back at the shop, Ruby tried to interrogate her about the quiet grin on her face, but Emma remained coy—she wanted to keep this between her and Killian for now, knowing how it would become a  _ thing  _ if too many eyes started prying too soon.

All too soon, the party—a resounding success, if the smiles on the kids’ faces and the cash in the register were anything to go by—wrapped up, leaving Emma, Ruby, and a slightly disheveled Mary Margaret to clean up.

“What a night,” the flushed Snow White gushed as she futilely swept up glitter.

“Yeah,” Emma breathed happily, still kind of in a daze while boxing up the craft supplies.

Henry was asleep by the time Emma headed upstairs, Mary Margaret having insisted on getting the store as clean as possible before they left. She was exhausted and her bed had hardly ever looked so glorious as it did when she flopped down on it. But before she could completely give in the bliss of sleep, she opened the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out the business card that had been staring at her for the past few months, finally letting it breathe and be ready to use tomorrow.

* * *

**ACT 4**

It was easy to forget past love when things seemed to be going so well. But for all love teaches to rhyme, it also teaches melancholy. [ 4]

Her alarm went off at its usual time the next day, but she allowed herself a few pushes of the snooze button; she earned it after the late night. The first of November brought a later and later sunrise, and she was hardly inclined to get up when it was still dark. But by 7:45, the sky was reasonably well lit and she slid out from her cocoon of comforters to take on the day.

She opened the curtains to see just how trashed the street was; between the two parties and other general revelry, she expected a mess, but it wasn’t too bad.

What she didn’t expect was the slumped form sitting in a bench in the tiny park in the median outside the shop (it was something contrived, like the Smallest Park in Maine or something, but really had only been good for giving drunks a place to crash at night). She’d recognize that dark mess of hair anywhere, though it looked particularly disheveled this morning. 

And was that a fifth of rum next to him?

_ Looks like I won’t need that card just yet _ . She dressed and readied quickly; something just didn’t seem right about this. She didn’t think Killian was a teetotaller—he clearly had his own supply last night—but she’d never seen him crashed out there before. She knew he and David lived in the apartment above their shop, just like she and Henry did theirs, so if this was a habit, she’d know about it.

Quickly, Emma dressed and made her hair look presentable—and maybe threw on some mascara—before heading down to the shop to take the trash out on her way to seeing what was up with Killian.

But she had barely entered the store through the door in the back when she heard someone shushing someone else. Her heart rate picked up and she reached for the baseball bat they kept by the door just in case. Why anyone would break into the shop was a mystery to her, but she wouldn’t let it fly; not on her watch.

Then she heard...was that giggling? It was coming from the storytime nook. As quietly as she could, she tiptoed over, bat held in a swinging stance.

She took a moment to hide behind the edge of the fake hollowed-out tree, listening as whoever was there continued to (attempt to) hide the fact they were there. Going for the element of surprise, she then jumped in front of it, aiming the tip of the bat at the offenders.

Anger quickly turned to shock when she saw who it was, though: a guilty-looking Mary Margaret staring up at her from the floor, with a just-as-embarrassed David next to her. Under blankets. Clothes strewn about the space. (And Emma definitely saw their underwear; she didn’t need to know that David wore tighty whiteys.)

“What the hell?” was all she could manage.

“Uh, hey, Emma,” Mary Margaret weakly replied. Dave looked like he was about to sheepishly cover his head with the quilt.

On one hand, Emma was proud of normally prudish friend. But on the other… “Did you really have to do it there? In the story nook?”

“Sorry! It just kinda...happened.”

“Your apartment is five minutes away! You know, the one you have all to yourself?”

“I know! I just…” Mary Margaret blushed even harder, but was clearly trying to hold back giggles as she pulled the blanket up to her chin and giving Emma a knowing look. More than once, the ladies had discussed a desire to fall asleep—and maybe do other things—on the mountain of beanbags back here. She couldn’t really fault her friend for finally going for it.

Emma lowered the bat and sighed. “Well, just...clean up, okay? And sanitize everything.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” David replied, and Emma practically stomped away. 

She was still shaken by the encounter as she haphazardly threw the trash in the dented old can outside the front door; she jumped in surprise when she heard the complaint of “Oi!” as she did so, which reminded her why she'd wanted to come outside in the first place. 

Killian was either squinting or glaring (or both) at her, shielding his racoon eyes with his hand. He wore a half-zipped hoodie over a rumpled white t-shirt with a torn pair of jeans; a far cry from his usual partially buttoned button-up, waistcoat, and trousers. She’d actually never seen him so unkempt since...well, since she saw him naked. 

“You okay?” He just grunted in reply, and slumped back against the bench.

She didn’t even bother to put the lid back on the can properly before running across the street to him; now she was kind of worried. The scent of rum was overpowering when she reached the park, and he was so still that she almost thought he’d passed out just in the minute it took her to get there.

“Killian?” she asked gently, but got no response. “Killian?” she tried again, nudging his foot with hers. Still nothing. Jumping to drastics, she leaned forward to shake his shoulders. “Hey!”

“Bloody hell,” he slurred, then cracked an eye open at her. “What is it, Swan? Can’t a man drink in peace?”

“Usually people do that on Halloween, not the Monday morning after.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of All Souls Day?”

“Yeah; it’s tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m celebrating it early.”

She picked the half-empty bottle up off the seat next to him and sat down in its place. She found herself reverting to mom mode. “Care to tell me why?”

“Not particularly.” He shuffled, trying to get comfortable on the bench and clearly failing if the disappointed pout on his face was any indication. It wasn’t just that, either—he looked unhappy. This was another one of those moments when his walls were lowered, she could tell, but it pained her that he didn’t want to divulge what was going on. She thought they had both made a step forward last night, but this felt like two backwards, and oddly not on her end, as usual.

So she leaned back, took a deep breath, and started talking. “I was a foster kid. My parents abandoned me on the side of the road so I ended up in the system.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, still with his eyes closed, but seemed to be listening. 

“I bounced around a lot, and a lot of places weren't great. But then I found books, and that gave me an escape.” She chuckled to herself. “I remember one place where my room was hardly bigger than a closet; no windows. So I would pretend that I was Harry Potter, and I had powers and someone would take me to some magic place.”

“Swan,” he started, but she kept going; she had to or she'd lose her nerve. 

“I guess the Blanchards kind of were my Hagrid, and they brought me here. But then I met Henry’s father, and he let me take the fall for a robbery, so that's how I ended up in juvie, pregnant with a broken heart. He was just one more person to abandon me.” She swallowed. “That's why I prefer happy endings.”

She studied the patch of grass in front of them, but could feel his gaze on her. It was several tense moments before she turned her head to look at him; whatever scrutiny she feared she might see on his face, even in his inebriated state, it wasn't there—just empathy, and even a hint of a smile. “I appreciate you telling me your tale, Swan,” he eventually murmured. “But...why?”

“We all have fucked up pasts,” she told him with a shrug. She didn't want to force him to tell her what was going on today, but maybe her own admission would make him feel comfortable enough to let her in. 

Thankfully, it did. He lightly chuckled. “Well that's certainly true,” he agreed, shifting again in his seat and nearly falling over, only saved by his hook on the back of the bench holding him up. “Let's see: father ran out, mother died, all before I was 9; raised by my older brother; joined the Royal Navy, where I lost my brother and my hand; fell in love after my discharge; and then she died, too. How’s that for fucked up?”

He was smiling again, but it didn't reach his eyes and was actually hard to look at—it was an odd, self-deprecating thing. There was something raw about that confession and his expression that caught her breath in her throat. “I'm sorry, Killian.” He waved her off before closing his eyes and leaning back again. “Is that what the rum is for?”

“Aye,” he quietly confirmed with a nod. “My mum was Irish Catholic; I grew up with All Souls Day. It's when I commemorate them, her and Liam and Milah.” Emma had to assume they were his brother and lost love. “If I give myself just this one day to wallow in grief, it makes the other 364 a bit more bearable.” He opened his eyes again. “And that's why I don’t shy away from tragedies.”

“Misery loves company?”

“Something like that.”

They were both silent for the next few minutes, but it wasn’t awkward. And it wasn’t as though she was seeing him in a new light; more like looking at him through a better prescription of glasses—clearer. 

They exchanged a few shy smiles before it was apparent that he was struggling to remain conscious. “Come on,” she commanded, patting his leg. “I don’t date drunks. Let’s get you inside.”

He muttered something unintelligible as she helped him to his feet, then added, “Yeah, Dave’s probably wondering where I am. Best not worry ‘im.”

“Uh...he’s probably not,” she answered as they half walked, half stumbled across the street.

“No?”

“Well, last I saw, he was quite comfy on the floor of my shop.” Killian looked at her with a brow raised, silently asking for more info. “With Mary Margaret.”

Killian’s other brow joined the lifted one in a look of surprised approval. “Well, fuck. Good for them.”

“I guess.”

He handed her the key to the outside door to his place, leaning against the wall as she unlocked the door. Getting him up the stairs to his almost-too-clean apartment (yeah, he was definitely a former Navy man) was a struggle, but she eventually was able to deposit him on his couch. He immediately snuggled into the cushions, and if it weren’t for the fact that he still reeked of booze, she’d find it adorable.

She left a glass of water and a bottle of pain meds on the coffee table next to him and then leaned over to brush the hair out of his eyes. She had sudden déjà vu to their tryst; she had studied his sleeping form like so then, too, and had been just as taken with how impossibly handsome he was. Despite the rough state of his stubble at the moment, he still looked so much younger than he did while awake, when the weight of his past wasn’t hanging on him. Even if he said he only gave himself this one day to grieve, she knew from personal experience that it never went away.

“Swan?” he croaked out in his near-passed out state.

“Yeah?”

“So when do you wanna go on that date?”

She smiled. “How does a week from Saturday sound?”

“Perfect,” he answered with a sleepy grin. “Just...remind me, okay?”

“Will do.”

* * *

She kept her word when he came by the next day, looking no worse for the wear, to get yet another wrongly delivered box.

(And if he smelled an excessive amount of cleaning product in the store, he didn’t comment.)

* * *

The date was perfect.  

She wore a soft pink dress she hadn’t yet had a chance to go out in. He met her at her front door and presented her with a single rose. Henry gave the overprotective dad speech, and Killian promised to have her home by 10.

They went to a restaurant that wasn’t Granny’s, for a change, and then took a stroll by the docks before getting ice cream from the shop down the street. Evening chill set in and he insisted she wear his leather coat; it was warm and smelled of the sea and spice, just like him.

He held her hand firmly in his as they wandered around town, discussing movies, music, and then giving up pretense and talking literature (but not business—as she reminded him, they were still rivals). It turned out he, too, was a fan of Harry Potter, as well as Lord of the Rings, pouting when she called him a nerd (though she did the same when he jokingly teased her love of Narnia).

At 9:59, they were outside her front door. She reluctantly returned the jacket, but before she did, he pulled her in for a sweet, chaste kiss, followed by one more on the back of her hand, eliciting goosebumps along her skin that weren’t just due to the cool air. They bid each other goodnight, and he watched as she closed the door behind her.

For a moment, she lingered there, leaning against the wood. The date was perfect.

So why was that old, familiar fear of commitment forming in the back of her mind again?

* * *

**ACT 5**

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; when little fears grow great, great love grows there. [ 6] Or does it?

November brought thoughts of Thanksgiving, and thoughts of Thanksgiving brought the start of holiday planning. And this year, Emma had the theme of their annual Christmas party picked out far in advance: a Yule Ball, as close to being ripped from the pages of  _ Goblet of Fire _ as they could manage. Her discussions with Killian about the series had inspired her, and even if she wasn’t actually a wizard, one of the perks of this job was getting to pretend, even if only for one night. 

It had only been a week since their first date, but in between party planning, normal business, and holiday prep, she and Killian had yet to go on another. They managed to run into each other one way or another almost every day—often enough that she’d still yet found a reason to use his phone number—but she couldn’t fight that self-doubt that was making her hesitate. If he caught onto it, he was being a gentleman and not pressuring her, and so they fell back into their usual flirty banter. It just happened to be over breakfast and paired with cheek kisses now.

As amazing as he seemed to be, she knew that nothing in life was that perfect. At some point, he was going to stop being so patient, or he’d realize he didn’t want to deal with both her and Henry, and he’d leave her in the dust.

Right?

Yet he still said nothing, and just went on being his impossibly perfect self. Damn him and his Hufflepuff ways; it was driving her Gryffindor instincts crazy. If Archie, the town’s psychologist, could assess her, he’d probably tell her that what happened next was on her—that she was looking for a reason to find fault in him. And part of her knew she was. But Emma was good at running, and at finding reasons to leave, so she may as well beat him to the punch.

She was posting signs for their Yule Ball on another crisp fall morning—chillier than when she was announcing their Halloween party, but just as sunny—and was again at the community bulletin board when Killian also strolled up. He looked just as dashing as ever, with a gray beanie pulled over his messy hair and pointed ears, and a knit scarf around his neck that was just begging for her to use it to pull him in for a kiss. He barely even looked tired, though she knew he’d been up late reading—from across the street, she’d seen how long the light in his room had stayed on. 

“Morning, Swan,” he greeted happily, pulling a flyer from his satchel to post.  _ Damn chipper sexy bastard _ .

“Hey there, sailor,” she replied as she pushed in a tack on her sign. 

He started conversing with her as he went about putting the sign up. “So, I was thinking, maybe we could try that little fish and chips place next time.”

“Next time? I don’t remember asking.” She turned to face him, hoping the teasing tone covered up her deflection.

“That’s because it’s my turn,” he retorted, pinning the sign and stepping back to face her. “Will you go out with me again?”

Emma opened her mouth to reply—he looked so adorably earnest—but then caught sight of his sign, and the words spelled out in a gorgeous, handwritten scroll that she recognized as his own penmanship:  _ Yule Ball _ . And on the same date as theirs.

Quickly, her emotions turned over to anger. “Really?”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What? What is...oh,” he trailed off once he took a glance back at her sign. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” he suggested nervously.

“Mhmm. Sure.” His response did nothing to calm her; if anything, it just made her fume more.

“Emma, trust me—”

“No,” she cut him off. “I can’t believe I fell for this. You were just spying on us the whole time, weren’t you?”

“No, Emma, I swear—it’s—”

“Save it.” She turned on her heel and marched off, heading back toward the shop. His cries of “Emma, wait!” fell on deaf ears. 

She knew—she knew this would happen. He was far too charming to only be in this game for himself. He had picked that shop location willingly, just to run them out of town...or something. Regardless, he’d just led her on to get his own business ahead.

Yeah, that was it. And it was better that she get out now, before he broke her heart later, after she’d really fallen for him.  _ Yup. Exactly that _ .

The apartment door slammed behind her with a clang and she angrily stormed up to her room, grabbing her laptop so she could start to peruse Pinterest for Potter-themed party planning. 

Glaring at her from the nightstand was the card with Killian’s number on it. She snatched it up and threw it in the trash, hoping her livid stare would incinerate it. (No such luck.)

She flopped on her bed and began scrolling through boards and pins, forcing herself to think of something other than the maelstrom of emotions coursing through her.

It worked, for a while, and she knew Mary Margaret would love some of the things she’d found. But then she headed down to the store to start the work day, and at the sight of the shop across the street—and the poster in the window advertising the party—an unexpected pang hit Emma in the chest instead of the expected loathing.

Maybe she was in deeper than she’d thought.

* * *

Thanksgiving came and went, and the party was quickly approaching. In the few weeks since her encounter with Killian, she’d managed to avoid him altogether, thankfully; they never crossed paths at Granny’s, and David was the one to come over for their boxes. It was better that way. (Or so she told herself.)

Whatever was going on between David and Mary Margaret was progressing nicely, it seemed, and Emma was happy for them, but she had to swallow down the bile-flavored jealousy that rose in her throat sometimes at seeing them. She knew she had made the right decision, in pushing Killian away, but she hadn’t expected it to hurt this damn much.

It was hard explaining to Henry why she didn’t see him anymore. (It hadn’t stopped Henry from spending afternoons there. “He seems kind of bummed out, Mom.”) It was difficult to explain to Mary Margaret why she was putting so much effort into the yule ball. (“You know, it’s not a competition,” her friend lectured.) It was impossible to explain to Ruby what had happened. (“Goddamn your walls, Emma! That juicy chunk of man meat wants you and I’m tired of serving him his pancakes while he pouts.”)

David, smartly, had made no comments to her. It would have just made her feel worse. Because what hurt the most was looking across the street at night and seeing his window lit up at all hours, just as hers was, and knowing that she had something to do with that.

But what was done was done; they could both be adults and move on. Surely he could handle a bit of rejection—it was no worse than anything else he’d faced. And she could get over him, too.

These were the things she told herself as she folded Chocolate Frog boxes, as she put together bags of every-flavored beans, as she crafted floating candles to be hung from the ceiling.  _ Just pour yourself into this—make it perfect and show him up—and then take some time off to clear your mind before the new year _ . Then she’d be good as new.

The morning before the party, she was hard at work decorating the store. The candles all dangled from the ceiling, ready to be lit; tables were in place, ready to hold the treacle tarts and cauldron cakes that Granny was baking; and Emma had even pulled out her old home ec sewing skills to make house banners and hung them on their tree-like columns. (She did learn  _ something  _ in school.)

When she was just about done, she headed to the front of the store to survey the scene. Outside, though, was just as much chaos as she'd wrought in the store. Heating posts were being set up at intervals down the median; the distinctive shape of quidditch poles were being erected in an open area; and strings of white lights were criss-crossing the street on Storybrooke’s old-fashioned lampposts.

What the hell was going on out there?

Not a second later, Mary Margaret came in the front door, stomping and shaking the snow off her. Emma hardly hesitated a moment before asking what it all was. 

“Oh, didn't I tell you? David and I thought, since we’re both having Yule Balls, and considering what happened at Halloween, may as well bridge the gap. Literally.”

Emma's gaping response said  _ no, you didn't tell me; how dare you _ and Mary Margaret immediately looked sheepish, before switching into teacher mode.

“Come on, Emma; it'll be fun.”

“Yeah, for you. You're the one fraternizing with the enemy!”

“Ugh!” Mary Margaret groaned, uncharacteristically slamming her hat and scarf on the counter. “I don't know where you got this rivalry notion from, but have you looked at the books lately?”

“No,” Emma threw back, a bit standoffishly. Mary Margaret managed the money while Emma took care of stock.  

“Ever since they moved in, our sales have gone up.”

Emma was surprised. “Really?” she answered meekly. 

“Yes. And for all you've been moping and muttering around, and throwing yourself into this party for the past few weeks, there's a guy across the street who's been doing the exact same thing for just as long.”

Emma stared at the hardwood floor, flushing with guilt at her friend’s admonishment. She didn’t have an answer.

Which was fine, because Mary Margaret continued. “Emma, that wall of yours—it may keep out pain, but it also may keep out love.”

Still looking down, Emma muttered something about checking the dance floor and wandered off, but the feel of Mary Margaret’s motherly gaze stayed on her. Deep down, she knew her friend was right (even if she was going to disregard the use of the l-word); but above all that, she also knew that it was too risky. It took years to repair her heart after Neal and something told her that if it happened again with Killian, she’d never recover.

She busied herself the rest of the day with putting everything in place for the party and getting ready herself. She wore the red dress from Halloween again—it was a ball, after all, but she toned down the support from the corset. Unlike last time, she wasn’t really trying to impress anyone.

The party went off flawlessly. All the patrons had smiles on their faces, and the bell constantly jingled with everyone coming in and out; actually, it was so loud in the store, Emma wondered why she’d even bothered to make sure the Harry Potter movie score was playing. Between keeping the goodie tables remained full and manning the register for customers purchasing last-minute gifts, she managed to stay pretty busy. 

A few times, she caught sight of the snowy quidditch matches being played outside, smiling when Henry scored. To her son’s credit, he tried a few times to get her to go out and see it, but between her dress’ lack of warmth and the sight of the many happy couples huddled close together in observation of the game, drinking what was surely hot pumpkin juice or butterbeer, she had to say no, citing a need to stay in the store. But she had, perhaps hypocritically, shoved Mary Margaret out the door, who was now sharing a cloak with her Prince Charming and laughing at the game.

Out of habit, Emma’s eyes drifted to the storefront across the way. It looked to be just as busy as her own, and she could almost imagine the sound of their ship’s bell clanging as the door swung open and slammed shut. She looked for Killian, perhaps masochistically, but he was nowhere in sight. She sighed involuntarily, and wasn’t sure if the accompanying pang in her heart meant she was fine with not seeing him...or that she had wanted to. She distracted herself for the umpteenth time by checking their stock of licorice wands, safely out of sight of the windows.

A couple of hours later, the parties were winding down and Emma found herself starting to clean things up in the back of the shop.  _ Whose brilliant idea was it to have glitter again? Didn’t we learn this lesson at Halloween? _ she wondered as she swept up the messy remnants of their golden snitch ornament take-home craft. She must have been sweeping a bit too hard, though, because when she picked up the glitter-filled dustpan, she sneezed, casting all of that stuff all over the classic books.

She cursed under her breath and immediately began wiping down the now-sparkly spines, fighting back the tears that welled (though whether it was at frustration, the dust in the air, or the emotional turmoil that led her to clean up so aggressively in the first place was up for debate). 

First she cleaned off Austen, then Brontë, and then kept working past Hemingway until she reached Shakespeare. She was taking in the titles as she went, but then noticed one that seemed out of place:  _ Romeo and Juliet _ .  _ What the hell? _ She pulled it out, wondering if someone had put it there as a joke, but it was a brand-new copy and matched the style of the others they kept in stock. Which could only mean one of two things: either they’d somehow gotten a part of Shore Leaves’ stock, or…

Or she’d accidentally ordered a tragedy. And placed it on the shelf. Somehow she knew she did; that in the fog of planning the party and running away from her feelings, she’d managed to bring in the very thing that started the banter between her and Killian all those months ago.

And then, the dam broke. Before she knew it, she was crying, with fat, hot tears dripping onto the cover of the book. Hastily, she wiped it off on her skirt and reshelved it, not wanting to damage the merchandise, and then stood to run into the back room.

Memories of the past few months came flooding back, and she realized just how much she missed Killian over the weeks since she dismissed him. As infuriating as he could be, his brand of flirtatious support was sorely lacking in her life, and by all accounts, he wasn’t doing so hot without her, either.  _ How could I do that to him? To myself? To...us? _

A plan quickly formed in her head. She dried her eyes as best she could, blew her nose on some old tote bags they were never going to sell, and then ran back to the Shakespeare to shelf to pull out the same book again. A quote was ringing through her head from when she had to read it in high school, so she flipped to Act 2 to make sure she had it right.

The store was now empty, aside from her and Mary Margaret; despite the sugar rush, Henry crashed not long after the game ended. Her friend was cleaning up one of the treat tables when Emma dashed past, skirts hiked and eyes fixed on the door. “Emma, is everything okay?”

“We’ll see,” she answered, before heading out into the Narnia-like world outside. 

She was ready to make a break through the cold to the shop across the street, but paused at the sight of a lone figure standing in the falling snow in that damn tiny park, drinking from a flask. He wore a knee-length, old-fashioned brown coat over grey slacks, a black waistcoat, and matching boots. And, of course, his shirt was wide open, the snow falling on his chest hair making her want to run her hands through it even from across the way. But she had other things to accomplish before they could get to anything approaching that again.

With a glance for oncoming cars, she ran through the slush to the median. Killian was staring at her, with a look on his face somewhere between shock and apprehension, and she couldn’t blame him for that reaction.

“Swan,” he greeted tentatively as she strode up to him. “To what do I owe this honor?”

She swallowed, glancing down before trailing her eyes back up to his. Curiosity and hurt made the blue stand out in harsh contrast to the warm glow of the fairy lights, and she almost lost her nerve before reciting the passage she’d hastily memorized.

She was never the best with words, but thankfully, the Bard was, and he’d written just the thing to express her feelings right now.

“For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do that dares love attempt.” [ 7]

The corner of his mouth ticked up—a slight smirk of recognition—but it quickly disappeared. “I thought you didn’t do tragedies.”

“I don’t,” she affirmed, “but I guess I made an exception.” His silent response urged her on. “Look, I run away. That’s how I’ve always survived—both when I was a kid and now that I’m grown. Maybe not always literally, but at least figuratively. And...I guess I ran away from you.”

“Emma,” he started, but she cut him off.

“No, let me finish.” She took a deep breath. “But being away from you these past few weeks—and being the reason for it...I...well, I missed you. And I learned long ago that when you miss something, that means...it’s part of home. Life taught me to build walls around my heart, but you...you broke right through them.”

Now it was Killian’s turn to swallow.

“So, I want to stop running. And whatever this is,” she gestured between the two of them, “I want this to work.” Tears threatened to spill again; she sniffed them down again so she could finish. “I’m sorry, Killian; I’m so sorry,” she choked out.

Strong arms were around her in an instant, and his fingers were on her chin, pulling it up to look at him. He studied her face for a moment, before answering her with a quote of his own: “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee / The more I have, for both are infinite.” [8] She smiled through the tears now tracing paths down her cheeks. He glanced down, explaining, “I won’t lie, Emma—it hurt when you dashed off without a word and shut me out. But I’m a patient man, and a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

“What’s that from?” she wondered, not familiar with the quotation. 

“Me,” he answered, cheekily. She hadn’t realized how much she missed those dimples. “I never intended to take anything away from you by hosting the yule ball—”

“It wasn’t the party; it was just my own messed up reasoning and walls and—”

“I know,” he butted in. “But, what I’m trying to say is...I did this for you.”

“What?”

“You told me how much you loved the stories, so...I wanted to create a bit of that magic, just for you.”

She gaped at him a moment.  _ He...he...what? _ No one had ever done anything like that for her—put so much effort into making her happy. “You threw a Yule Ball for me?”

He nodded solemnly. “Aye.” 

Her eyes flitted down to his lips, before glancing back at the utter sincerity in his gaze, and she found herself leaning forward. She reached for the lapel of his jacket, and gently brought his lips to hers—cold at first, but soon warmed by her breath, her tongue, and the simple heat of the emotions he stirred within her. Like she said, words weren’t her strong suit, but actions were; and as their fingers found their way into the other’s hair, arms pulling each other closer, she hoped he could feel just how much she cared for him. (The L-word would come eventually.)

It felt like an eternity they spent kissing under the lights and falling snow, but surely it was only minutes until they were forced to break apart for air. She shivered at the loss of his warmth; the heat pooling in her belly did little to offset that. But if the pinks of his cheeks and ears were anything to go by, he was feeling the cold, as well.

“I...suppose this is where we part to our own abodes,” he said, albeit hesitantly. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” [ 9]

She laced her fingers with his. “Who said anything about parting? What about...coming together?”

Lust quickly filled his gaze. “I like how you think, love.” Ever the gentleman, he shed his coat and placed it around her shoulders as he led her back to his apartment.

She did get to bury her fingers in his chest hair, while parts of his body were buried elsewhere. It was true what they said about journeys ending in lovers’ meetings [ 8] ; for all that it took them to get back to this point, it was the best lovemaking either of them had ever known thus far, and was sure to get better with time.

The only reason she wasn’t there in the morning was Henry, but both knew one simple truth: it certainly wasn’t a one-, or even a two-time thing, but an all-time thing. 

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

No, the course of true love never did run smooth—it had bends and breaks, rapids and slows; moments that were as rough as the sea in a storm or as smooth as the ocean at daybreak.

Nor did it ever ease, but for Emma and Killian, as long as they were by each other’s side, they could teach their trials (and children) patience, and all else that was due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs and wishes and tears. [ 10]

And, ultimately, they lived happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1, Scene 1, Line 134  
> 2\. Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 6, Lines 3-4  
> 3\. Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5, Line 1  
> 4\. The Tempest, Act 1, Scene 1, Lines ~17-20  
> 5\. Love's Labour's Lost, Act 3, Scene 3, Line 10  
> 6\. Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2, Lines 159-160  
> 7\. Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2, Line 67  
> 8\. Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2, Line 133  
> 9\. Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 3, Line 44  
> 10\. A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1, Scene 1, Lines 154-155


End file.
